


The Past Presses Down on Us

by TongueTiedandSqueamish



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, This fandom deserves more James Madison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TongueTiedandSqueamish/pseuds/TongueTiedandSqueamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Knock, knock, knock.</em>
</p><p>“Alexander?”</p><p>“Aaron Burr, sir—”</p><p>“Alexander,” James Madison sighs. “I am not Aaron Burr.” But he is so tired, the streetlamps and moonlight blurring, he questions himself. Perhaps he <em>is</em> Aaron Burr, and he has been displaced in another’s mind, another’s body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Past Presses Down on Us

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed there have been few serious Alexander Hamilton/James Madison editions to the fandom, so my immediate thought was to stop everything and remedy that with a oneshot. It's not as nicely structured as I try to be, but ah well! Also, my headcanon James Madison is asexual, but I'm not sure it was relevant enough to mention in the tags.

 

_Knock, knock, knock._

“Alexander?”

“Aaron Burr, sir—”

“Alexander,” James Madison sighs. “I am not Aaron Burr.” But he is so tired, the streetlamps and moonlight blurring, he questions himself. Perhaps he _is_ Aaron Burr, and he has been displaced in another’s mind, another’s body.

“Oh.” Hamilton deflates. Half of his hair has escaped its bonds and falls messily in his face. He looks like a vengeful wraith, ethereal in his unorderliness, a frantic look of death in his eyes that buzzes through his limbs. The world tells Alexander Hamilton _it is time to sleep_ and Alexander Hamilton balks at that presumptuous assignment to temporary death.

James Madison is very tired. His mind is cloudy from fever. He would happily take Hamilton’s hated temporary death if it meant rest.

Hamilton revives, furious once more. “It’s just as well. Forget Burr. You are a lesser man than he is, Madison!” He storms into Madison’s house. James supposes to stop him with an arm or a word, but in his fatigue they slip from his ability. He stares up at the full moon, the stars cloaked around it in an ever-present coat of tears, and closes the door.

“Have I done something in particular to engage your ire?” Madison asks. Hamilton intrudes deeper into the darkness, closer and lonelier than the exterior’s, foregoing Madison’s lamp to navigate blind to the study where the only other remaining light glows. Madison extinguishes the lamp and follows him, surefooted in his own halls.

Ahead, a _thunk_ and a curse as Hamilton walks into the corner of a table. Madison smiles in the honest, defeated way one can only accomplish in darkness so complete the eye of God could not reach. (If He looked at all.) Hamilton, anger sharpened by the physical indignity of pain, shouts, “You’re a traitor, Madison! Burr and I, we employed ourselves as lawyers together, we dined together, but I could not have been _surprised_ that he stole Schuyler’s Senate seat. The man has always been guided by his own self-interest, damn the consequences, and damn the well-being of our beloved country!” Hamilton’s winding words, theater-like, paused. Footsteps, then hands grasped at Madison’s coat, clenching in the collar. “But _you_.” James reminded himself that characters do not die in the dark. They die held in the light of their deficiencies, their mistakes, their curses. But Hamilton might be a flame. “Eighty essays between the two of us, James. At the Convention, you stood beside me. In correspondence and in meeting, we agreed at every crucial junction. Then along came _Thomas Jefferson_.” Hamilton shoves him back, disgusted. “You are either a liar or a child wandering from one ideal to the next as they beguile your fancy.”

In daylight, an answer would have to be crafted, its wording of ultimate importance to escape Alexander’s legendary animosity.

In darkness, the hours since sunset weigh on his skin, the moments heavy and elongated so he can feel the seconds tangible under his fingertips, no witness, not even himself, to record his movements and expressions. In darkness, James says, “I haven’t abandoned you, Alexander.”

Nothing happens.

James takes Alexander’s hand and leads him to the study, where the candles burn steady and bright. Alexander walks into the light on his path to the couch – _exhaustion_ , beyond any James has known. In gloom, he sits. By the half hour, he has fallen sideways, asleep. James arranges some papers on his desk, blows out the candles, and rests his head on top of them, rather than going to his bed as he reasonably should.

~~~~~

At Montpelier, a week after returning from New York, he receives a letter. In essence, it reads: _That night did not happen_.

Madison writes back, in essence: _Of course it did not_.

~~~~~

But, as he does when it suits him, Alexander Hamilton ignores his own insistences and stands on James Madison’s doorstep within a day of Madison’s arrival in New York. His appearance is as disheveled as the first, expensive clothes pulled out of place and hair curling in a rebellious frizz. Still a wraith, a jagged contrast against the star-softened night, but a gentle spirit this time, with open palms and limbs loose mid-way through a gesticulation.

“Madison—”

“Ah, so you know whose door you’ve knocked on tonight?” James interrupts. Another sleepless night, but his mind is clear, just a lingering cough. This time, he can laugh.

Hamilton huffs and ignores him in turn. “I cannot think. I have been surrounded by children screaming all day and my ears refuse to cease ringing.”

“Cabinet meeting today?”

“I wonder why Washington hasn’t hired you to be his court jester, James,” Alexander says, his dryness ruined by the smile tugging at his lips, because he could deny himself nothing, including the expression of his own emotions.

“Why are you here, Alexander?” No matter the answer, James draws to the side, allowing Alexander to barge in without elbowing him. James takes up his lamp and leads them to the study in its glow instead of feeling their way by instinct.

“As I said,” Alexander replies, eyes on the art hung on the walls, pleasant landscapes garish in the small light, “I cannot think, and I’m certainly not going to sleep. Eliza is a _saint_.”

James chuckles. “But you are not,” he finishes, so Alexander won’t have to.

The study is bedecked in such a plethora of candles James half-expects the room to ignite into one fiery ball at any second. He had lit them in the hopes of keeping his mind awake by tricking it into believing it was daylight. A useless endeavor, for no legion of candles could match the brilliance of the sun, and instead of alertness, the candles sing a siren’s song, a flickering haze, a rolling wave of heat and light that soothes. They sit on the couch, side-by-side. Alexander yawns, and James must force himself not to echo it. “I despise politics,” Alexander murmurs in that loose enunciation that implies he is talking to himself. “The common people who vote are calloused, ignorant louts, and the so-called honorable men that form the body of our government? Fools! Bickering old men with no loyalty or constancy or sense.”

“Are you all right, Alexander?” James’ voice is low.

Alexander clenches his fists and shakes his head in jerky, back-and-forth wags like trying to throw something off his shoulders. A dismissal or an answer? “I have so much work to do. It’s been ten years and I still have so much work to do.”

James considers questioning him. Government and the politics involved can and have moved men to despair, but Alexander spits venom and fights harder when frustrated, has never admitted defeat for a moment, even when the entirety of Congress denied his debt plan. Whatever the problem haunting Alexander, it must be old, grave, and incurable. James lays a hand on his shoulder and says nothing.

Hamilton babbles on about lighthouses, the excise tax on whiskey, the squalid state of the water supply in New York, the progress of the capital in Washington, Gouverneur Morris’s last correspondence concerning France’s rising unrest – etc. – etc. Before the turn of the hour, Alexander began leaning. His movements slow, drift. Within the next, despite the frantic panic at the thought of death, however ephemeral, his eyelids droop. Soon, his head rests on James’ shoulder, his body relaxed and leaned into the shorter man, and the desperation restrained in his complaints of Congress fades. James puts an arm around his shoulders and follows.

~~~~~

Hamilton is a prideful man. His letters read: _It was a misunderstanding_ or _It will never happen again_ or _I am much too busy for a friendly visit_. They are justifying lies. Madison responds in placating acceptance. A polite, functional society demands appeasements, façades, compromises, and Hamilton’s denial is easy to satisfy. He continues to knock in the dead of night, argues as if scolding himself, and then sleeps against James on the study’s couch. Sometimes Madison remembers to blow out the candles, sometimes – mostly – he does not. It is a miracle his New York house has not burned down yet.

To be frank, Madison has no clue what to make of it.

Their professional relationship remains the same. Hamilton sneers when Madison agrees with Jefferson, Madison sighs when a simple thesis transforms into an hour-long dissertation – all the same except, well—

“What has Hamilton said to you?” Jefferson asks, eyes narrowed over the table. Blueprints for Monticello II spread across the bare wood, the edges curling near Madison’s teacup as Jefferson jots down notes on stairs and dimensions and materials and colors. He has always been impressive in multi-tasking, several ideas occurring simultaneously and expressing themselves fluidly, but in his distraction he betrays his suspicion.

“No thing of import that I can recall,” Madison replies. Hamilton never told him anything beyond business in the day, never anything beyond nonsense in the night. Not in words, at any rate.

Jefferson taps his pencil on the scattered papers, glances between Madison and the pages, then sets it down to steeple his fingers together.

 _Oh no_ , Madison thinks, taking up his teacup and huddling it to his chest.

“You’ve acted peculiarly as of late,” Jefferson says, focused and even. “Not to any degree noticeable to those not the closest and most observant of friends, as you have a solid and illegible countenance, but you have talked to and spoken of Hamilton more often, and your manner is considerably less curt in doing so than it has since the Federalist Papers’ publication.”

“It . . . it has?”

Jefferson nods. “It has. Which leaves me to wonder: what has Hamilton said to change your inflection when you speak of or to him? If you had incurred it surely I would have heard of it from you, but perhaps I would not if he is the root.”

Madison stares into his cup, switches to stare outside at the grounds of Monticello. Derailing the conversation by complimenting the grounds would be easy – Madison has done it before when Jefferson asked after his bachelor status and outwardly his brow was smooth and sweatless but inside he scrambled in anxious knots, unable to admit, _I am the lonely and unwanted sort only suitable for friendship, don’t you see, Thomas?_ – and Monticello is truly beautiful; Madison prefers it over Montpelier for its elegance and detachment from his own life, his own debt. The liquid in the cup trembles, so he puts it down and presses his palms against his legs. “I don’t know, Thomas,” James says, forcing his voice above a shrunken whisper. “I am not avoiding your question with that ambiguous answer, either. I simply do not know, my friend.”

Thomas frowns but recaptures his pencil. “All right.”

~~~~~

“Why are you always awake at this time of night?” Alexander asks, slurred against sleep and where his face is pressed against James’ neck. The puffs of his breath are ticklish and grounding, keeping James awake and aware of every place where they are leaned together: Alexander’s nose tucked between his collarbone and the meat of his neck, the back of Alexander’s shoulder against the front of his, their sides from chest to hip, their legs from hip to knee, Alexander’s hand in his own lap, the other curled at James’ thigh, James’ arm around Alexander’s shoulders, Alexander’s head against James’ cheek. James almost wishes for the protection of his cravat and stiff waistcoat to dull the sensation, but it would be ridiculous to be in full dress at this hour. The single candle has burnt to a smoldering stub, glowing without shedding light.

James answers quietly; Alexander is but a minute from sleep. “A chronic inability to sleep.”

“Another one of your illnesses?” Alexander breathes a half-formed chuckle against his chest, a flutter that echoes inside James’ miserable chest.

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

“Alexander?”

“Mm?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m so tired . . .” The hand on James’ thigh grasps at his shirt tight, then relaxes. “I’m so tired . . .”

James squeezes his shoulders, and his free hand reaches out to clasp the other man’s. “Sleep.”

Alexander nods, more a half-conscious nuzzle, and does so. James follows.

~~~~~

“How do you stand him?”

“He is not that bad, Alexander.”

“He’s intelligent, he’s quick-witted, he’s multi-talented, but he’s arrogant, he’s idealistic, he’s practically _naïve_.”

“He would say much the same of you.”

“How do you stand him? It stings to know Lafayette enjoys his company, but Lafayette has rarely found a man he did not enjoy the company of, excusing Aaron Burr and that scoundrel Charles Lee. However, you, James, do not forge bonds so readily.”

“He is fierce and brilliant but also meek and solitary. He is full of healthy contradictions.”

“As are you.”

“What?”

“Come now, you _must_ employ it consciously. You are kind, and you paint yourself the same color as the walls of the Congress floor, and in your camouflage steal your victories. It is sly and clever, hiding your knives under niceties.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I’m sure!”

~~~~~

Madison pretends he does not spend more time in New York than he has in years. He does buy a new couch, its back tilted at angle convenient for accidental naps that turn into night time sprawls. He and Hamilton tangle like roots or vines, slowly and inexplicably but seemingly inevitably. Hamilton’s letters cease mentioning their meetings even obliquely. Jefferson appraises him often, says nothing. Madison buys more candles. His house does not burn down.

He wakes after falling asleep one night, and he lies wide-eyed and frozen in the dark, terror rioting in his every muscle, limb, organ, thought. Hamilton lies in his arms – the man’s stubble scratches through his thin shirt. He has Hamilton is in his arms and he can – he can _see_ him – in the blaze of daylight he can see him, the one who is unrumpled and perfect in his attire every day but haggard and beggar-like at night, a poor man pretending he does not remember being poor – the sun, the candelight flashing in his dark eyes that never soften for his ambition is consuming in alertness, in exhaustion, under the sun or under the moon, when he can think and when he can’t – _James are you implying you_ – how eagerly he knocks! – how friendly his speeches! – didn’t that man once call him a traitor? – what had James done differently that pardoned him where Burr rotted, thrown into the filth of the Hudson? – he attempts to hide the sunken purple crescents under his eyes during the day, like pools of blood they are, like scars they are, displaying his determination to win wars with not just nations but the mechanics of God Himself, but at night they stand out loud and frantic like his breath when it hitches and he says, “James, I have so much work to do,” or “What would be enough?” or “Living is so much harder” – who is James to hear that? – _are you implying that you feel_ —

It is black as death or the womb, and someone is murmuring, soft, shushing noises, and a hand smooths his cheeks dry. “Shh, James, it’s okay, shh . . .”

“Stop,” James whimpers. Chokes. Garbles.

Alexander hushes him more insistently. “No. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“Why are you _here_ , Alexander?”

“Because you’re not Burr.”

James waits. The tears well up and fall and he cannot quite help it. Alexander wipes them away. He talks into darkness but somehow James feels their eyes meeting.

“You are not Burr, you are not Jefferson, and you are not Eliza. You are ambitious beyond your own self, you are kind, and you are not satisfied. I hate you at times; your opinions infuriate me. But I feel safe with you. At home, I can feel history glaring down at me, threatening to tear me away from the narrative, but here . . . I close my eyes, and I am sure tomorrow will arrive.”

James cries, softer and hiccuping with an overwhelming bubble of emotion in his chest. “I’m not who you want me to be.”

“Nobody is,” Alexander corrects sharply. His head settles on the other man’s chest. Softer, he says, “I know who you are. I want to be here. Here.” He runs a hand across his chest, lingering and gentle.

The twisted bramble in James’ chest breaks up and fades like a chest cold, the lump in his throat soothed away. Boldly, he leans down to kiss Alexander’s head. He can feel Alexander’s lips curl in response against his skin through his sheer shirt. “Good night, Alexander,” he whispers.

“Good night.”


End file.
